


The Adventure Of The Smoking Journal

by KeldvokWrites



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (1984 TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-10
Updated: 2020-08-10
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:08:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25825657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KeldvokWrites/pseuds/KeldvokWrites
Summary: This week had been different: the consulting detective’s mind was at its sharpest; what would have been another baffling and exhilarating case was solved with nary a single call to Scotland Yard, or the use of one of the many disguises Holmes found often found himself in. For his reward, he had been awarded with one of life’s greatest gifts: A good night’s sleep.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 6
Kudos: 22





	The Adventure Of The Smoking Journal

“I adore you, John.”

“You say that every morning, Sherlock.”

“Truth doesn’t change simply because it is repeated,” Holmes said blithely as he rose from the bed to put on the tea kettle. Watson smugly tilted his head, a smile playing at the edges of his mouth.

The morning routine at 221B Baker Street was rote, but had a certain charm to it: Holmes would get up, light the lantern, put on a kettle for tea, and proceed to thumb through whatever scientific paper or novel had caught his attention that morning before John would wake, usually on account of his own snoring. Following that oft-humorous spectacle, Mrs. Hudson would bring breakfast around seven or eight. Following the happy couple’s meal, work would begin at nine o’clock sharp.

On the weekend, however, time tended to acquire a more nebulous flow, like sand in an hourglass. Mrs. Hudson would bring breakfast “when she was good and ready,” and the busy detective work often meant that John and Sherlock would arrive back at their flat late in the evening or in the early hours of the morning, not to be seen until the late afternoon, if at all.

But this week had been different: the consulting detective’s mind was at its sharpest; what would have been another baffling and exhilarating case was solved with nary a single call to Scotland Yard, or the use of one of the many disguises Holmes found often found himself in. For his reward, he had been awarded with one of life’s greatest gifts: A good night’s sleep.

* * *

It was _so simple_ , he thought to himself, as he scanned the tattered ledger that had been dropped off by Lestrade, taking care not to damage the already wilting pages. According to him, the book had found itself in the possession of a police informant tasked with a narcotics outfit that had been operating near the wharf for nearly half a decade. The organization had suddenly vanished a month ago, leaving the informant stunned, but had found the book had been presumably left behind by accident, as well as a letter that made reference to a stash of goods, to be retrieved by the intended recipient somewhere in the city. The letter seemed to be of a far better condition than the ledger, which had been well-worn, the cover itself hanging on by the inner bindings. By connecting the dates inside the book with the group’s prime selling locations numerically, they were able to apprehend the letter’s intended recipient, in the process of making what he thought would be his comfortable escape. He had a second letter, which Watson had argued was a fail-safe of sorts, just in case the first letter had fallen into the wrong hands or was destroyed through happenstance.

* * *

But something about the ease of the case had bothered Holmes. He had begun to push it out of his mind, but when he saw the skull in his reading of the latest medical journal, a sinister thought lodged itself in the detective’s mind.

“ _Surely not_ ,” Holmes thought to himself as he started to dig through the piles of books that lay strewn about the flat, looking for the book from the case of the week. There was just something that had bothered him about it, it was too easy, too dull, too out of character for cases that made it to their door: _Watson hadn’t even needed to shave, for God’s sake!_

Upon finding it, he sat down at his desk, and began to smoke his pipe, at a rate Watson found a bit disconcerting. “Holmes, what’s the meaning of this?” he said, face flush with embarrassment for his friend’s sudden abdication of his usual calm and collected demeanor.

“I should have known. It’s always the little things, you have to keep watch for the little details…”

“What do you mean?”

“Take a look for yourself,” he said, as he blew pipe smoke on the pages of the book which made reference to medicine, of which there were five. The first letter of the second word on the page began to darken, leaving a message unmistakable to the duo: M.O.R.A.N.

Watson gasped. “IT CAN’T BE.”

“Let us go and fetch Lestrade; it appears this case is far from over.”

“It appears that we won’t be getting any breakfast.”

Throwing on their jackets, the duo rushed out the door, off on another adventure, one no doubt filled with untold danger and wonder.

**Author's Note:**

> Come chat with me on Tumblr! [@KeldvokWrites](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/keldvok)


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